The Demise of Sherlock Holmes
After finishing dinner with Mary, John made his way back to 221B. Sherlock was being as silent as ever, not answering calls or texts. John longed to speak to his friend as he hadn't spoken to him since John went away with Mary's parents. He made his way into a cab and asked the driver to get him there fast. After about ten minutes of driving they were in a back ally it was then John noticed something. The driver had thus far been very talkative but now he sat stock still, looking at something behind a cluster of bins.
'What is it?' John asked.
'Look, by the bins.' The cabbie whispered. Next to the bins was a woman bending over, picking something up. Her hair was pale and ragged clothes hung from her low shoulders. The cab passed and John got a good look at what she was doing. She was holding a small rodent in one hand and a scalpel in the other. The rat squeaked in fear just before the woman shoved the glint of silver into its throat. John gasped and told the driver to keep moving, she was a lost cause. What John didn't see was when the woman pulled the rats eyes out. I didn't take much of a pull; they were awfully fun to play with. The woman made her way back to the shadows.
The cab made its way to 221B. It was late by the time John got home, and there was only one light on in the house. Having paid, John went to the door and reached for his key. Damnit, it was in his other coat. John knocked on the door and Mrs Hudson answered.
'Are you quite alright dear?' she asked, 'It's awfully late to be out, especially in this place.'
'Thank you, Mrs Hudson but yes, I'm fine.' He gently pushed pass her.
'Okay then, I'd better get back to my brandy. Julia said she was going to chat to me later.' She waddled off to her room.
He made his way upstairs and hung his coat up. The house was gently illuminated by the lamplight outside. Dust seemed to hang in the air, only being disturbed by movement.
'No dusting.' John sighed. 'Sherlock? I'm home!' No answer. 'Yeah, very funny!' John wasn't worried. He just felt an air of unease in the house. The window was open and a huge articulated lorry drove past, making the place shake. But that was normal. John picked up his phone and rang Sherlock. HE could hear a faint vibration coming from Sherlock's room. He went up to the room and opened the door. He dropped the phone.
In front of him, arms out stretched lay Sherlock, his throat slashed, red crosses layering his skin. 'Oh my god! Sherlock!' John screamed, desperately checking for a pulse, breathing, anything that would deny the reality of the scene infront of him. 'Please no, please. You can't be dead. Sherlock, get up, Sherlock please.' Johns eyes filled with tears. He held his friend, the corpse cold. 'NO!' John yelled in anguish. MRs Hudson came into the room.
'Dear, you really need to- oh my! Sherlock?' she rushed to the body. 'Quick, phone an ambulance!' She yelled at John's general direction.
'Mrs Hudson, stop, please, there's no point.' He started to sob. His friend, his companion, his ally. Gone forever. Nothing was going to bring him back, not this time. Sirens filled the air and John just sat there, looking at his friend. Rain began to spatter against the windows and thunder echoed around London.
There was a storm coming, and no one would be able to stop it.